When the beer is flowing and the golf stories start piling up, I sit patiently waiting for the appropriate time to tell mine. This story is absolutely true. Witnesses, trophies, photos, I have them all.

Thirty years ago, I played a lot of golf. My handicap fluctuated between one and three. I have to be honest here, my home course had pencil-thick seedlings and was not very challenging. I’ve always been able to hit the ball into the next county, but was never sure which county it would end up in.

My putting was the obvious weak point in my game. One thing was for certain back then, and is for certain today — I definitely don’t have the cojones to play competitively. I have been known to three putt from three feet numerous times. If the tournament is not a scramble, I run like hell.

Today I carry an 11 to 13 card depending upon the beer. I still hit the ball with a serious whack and the results are just as you would expect. I hit it deeper into the woods than most. I’m also the proud owner of a 45 putt round early last year.

My business partner and I play in numerous charity events that are of course, the scramble format. Our marketing firm donates our time and efforts to the Los Cabos Children’s Foundation which was established by local businessman Tom Walsh. Last fall we were in Mexico filming all the good deeds this foundation is involved in. Children’s Cancer Center, first and only blood bank, wheelchairs, classrooms, and many more life-changing things for the families of the Cabo area.

Early in the week Tom mentioned that on the way home we would stop in Dallas and would play in the George Lopez-David Feherty Irish-Mexican Standoff. Sounds fun, I thought.

Sunday night Tom said, “Wake-up call for 5 a.m. Plane leaves at 7 a.m. for Dallas!” My wife Lisa and I were up early and like most travelers my wardrobe had been spent. I grabbed some clothes, thinking if I needed to, I could change at the golf course. Without thinking I threw on a pair of wrinkled shorts and an orange shirt. As Peter, Paul and Mary sang, “Our bags are packed, we’re ready to go…oh-babe, we hate to go…”.

Even had we left exactly on time, it would have been taxing to fly to Del Rio, Texas, go though Customs, onto Dallas and have time to take the crap that seven days in Mexico promised.
Tom informed us that the Lopez-Feherty event started at 11:30. Tee time was at 12:30. Touch down was at 12:00. There would be a cab waiting.

As promised, the cab was waiting. A very cool mini-van with the handsome wood grain vinyl on the side. Our driver was an older Asian lady with very limited communication skills. She did know the words “don’t know, don’t know!” With phone in one hand, the other reaching for the map, her left knee steered us on. Soon Magellan had us on the freeway flying past Cowboy’s stadium and then a right hand exit…SCREEEECH. Stop!

Cars felt like lightning bolts as they whizzed by us. Our driver was paging through the inch-thick atlas that had become our symbol of hope. She was talking faster than the BMW that just missed taking the vinyl off the side of our chariot.

She calmly closed the map and with the patience of a surgeon we were again off in search of our golfing paradise.

We finally arrived at a the club house. Time, 12:22. Just then a golf cart that could hold about 200 people pulled up and the driver asked, “Are you the Walsh group? They’re expecting you! Jump on!”

As the mondo cart wound its way through the trees, we approached the driving range where all the action was taking place. Feherty came running and in his Irish brogue yelled, “Glad you’re heere-ah, where the he-a-ll have you bee-an?”

David has been to Sioux Falls for the Make-A-Wish Foundation many times. It was there I first met him. After seconds of welcoming ta-dahs, he grabbed his co-host, comedian George Lopez, and introduced us. I noticed George’s snappy little hat, plaid tie, long sleeved white shirt and blue sweater. He looked like he fell off the centerfold of PlayGolfGirl magazine.

After shaking hands with my appropriately dressed partner Tom, he looked at me. Oops! Let me remind you. Tent-sized orange golf shirt. Wrinkled shorts. No socks. And, to finish this classy look, a scruffy pair of bright green low top Converse All-Stars. Nice.

George offered his less than impressed hand. David quickly turned me around and up walked CBS golf analyst Peter Kostis. “Peter, I’d like to introduce you to a good friend from South Dakota…” Peter completed his approach and extended his formidable paw, grabbed my hand, looked me up and down and said, “Well, one of us is underdressed, now aren’t we?”

With razor-like wit I responded “Well, I guess so.”

David pushed me to a golf cart. “Let’s play” he announced, and off we went to the tenth tee. As we approached the clubhouse, I said to David that maybe I should run in and buy some $250 (fifty-dollar) long pants and a pair of socks.

David laughed and said in his familiar tone, “FU-OACK THEM!!!!” He made me laugh but all I really wanted to do was to hide in the bottom of the 19th hole.

We got to the side of the clubhouse and David said, “Stop, I’ll be right back!” I actually thought he was going in the clubhouse to bring back a defibrillator for my impending heart attack. In less than 30 seconds he appeared with two new Cobra drivers and four dozen Titleists. He shoved them into my bag and yelled “Let’s go!’.

I didn’t know until later that the likes of Corey Pavin, Kenny G, Lee Trevino, Kenny Rogers, Harrison Frazar, were there as well. What the hell was I doing there? This better be a f___ing scramble was all I could think.

As my scruffy green low tops manipulated the gas pedal of the cart we soon found our way to the tenth tee. To the right of the tee box was the hole-in-one prize, a shiny Porsche Carrara Turbo.
It was at this very moment I learned we were playing a “shamble.” Shamble? What the hell was a shamble?

Everyone hits the drive. Go to the best drive. Everyone plays their own ball in from there.”
OH-NO!!! I have to putt!?!?!

Just then I heard someone behind me say, “Kirb- you’re up! Come on big fella, we need you!” Our team consisted of my buddy Walsh, PGA player Tag Ridings and Feherty.

“What? My turn? Already?”

To this day I don’t know how long the hole was or what iron I pulled from the bag, I do remember whacking at a white ball. And…that’s about all.

When we got to the green we found a ball about six feet from the pin. I didn’t have a clue whose ball it was because I never looked at what kind of ball I hit. Hell, I was still lusting after the Porsche back on the tee when I heard someone say, “Putt ‘er in Kirb!”

Ohhh-kaaay. I didn’t even line it up. I looked at it. Bent over. And without any hesitation put it in. Our first bird.

By then the Feherty Fart Machine had eased the pressure, so to speak. I could actually feel the sweat rolling down my back on that balmy 52-degree Texas afternoon. Tag could really launch a golf ball. Since he was the pro, he had to tee off in a different time zone and still, more often than not, he would be the choice for best drive. I hit a few that we actually found, and used, but for the most part Tag put us in position.

The greens were holy-shit-fast. I couldn’t go too wrong with a stroke because there wasn’t any stroke. Just set your putter behind the ball and think it towards the hole.
We had a for-caddie. He would run like a jack rabbit after anyone hit their drive. By the time we got there he would have every ball cleaned and report how far it was to the front of the green and to the pin. Wow! I liked that guy. I wondered if he’d commute?

17th hole, Tag leaned over the scorecard and announces that we were doing “pretty well.” No one even seemed to hear him. No one was interested in the score. We were there to be the focus of Feherty’s bantering and the beer.

After a great day and a bunch of birdies, we were on our last hole. The close-to-mile-long par five number nine. Tag hit his drive. We were again astonished by his power. We took the half-hour trek up to his monster drive and our eager retriever said, “219 to the front of the green, 240 to the hole.” He smiled and took off towards the green with the eagerness of Oprah with a canned ham.

It was my turn to hit. Now I’d been hitting the ball pretty well all day and the ball seemed to carry quite far. Normally I would choose a three iron for this shot of 219 but I just can’t hit that thing. We had a ball on the green and I didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of the small group of onlookers by being on the green anyway, so I pulled out a 4 iron.

I hiked up my wrinkled shorts, wound up, kept my nose behind the ball, and whack! Ooow.. Just a tad bit thin and like most thin hits was headed dead straight and at the pin. My butt was cinched up tighter than a frogs ass as the ball screamed towards the hole. Did it have enough?

Yes! It just cleared the trap. Yep, just as I had planned. Wink, wink.

When we got to the green, our gopher was looking at me with a shit-eating grin said, “That thing rolled right over the cup!”

Now I have a putt for an eagle. Quite frankly, I can’t tell you how long the putt was. Six feet or twelve. I do know however that it was downhill and fast.

Tom announced that I got a stroke on this hole and of course my butt hole puckered like someone shoved fist full of dill weed up my there. God, I hate these putt-your-own-ball kind of tournaments!

There was a good chance that if I missed the put, it would roll some 60 feet past the hole and into the trap. Believe me, I thought about that. Humbling? No. Expected? Yes.

Our concierge handed me the ball and said under his breath, “Right edge, very very fast, take your time.” He repeated the chant more than twice.

This brought to mind the lesson my wife taught me a over a year ago.

We had taken a week off to spend at the lake. Mid-week we went golfing. My wife is the spitting image of Christie Brinkley, but I must admit this beautiful lady has a streak of beer league softball in her. Actually, she could probably kick my ass in a bar room brawl. She was spraying her drives around exactly like her mentor and was getting pretty anxious about hitting a good shot off the tee. Number seven. Jaw set in determination. “I’m going to hit this right down the middle,” she proclaimed. I’m patiently sipping a Bloody Mary behind her as she tees up. She grips the club. She takes her stance and looks down the fairway as if she were the mighty Babe calling her shot. She wiggles. She looks. She pauses and the turns around and says, “I think we should have seafood tonight!”

My drink was now spurting out of my nose. I was laughing so hard I almost fell out of the cart. I said to myself, “That’s the way this game should be played!” Golf is a game and it’s not the end of the world.

So, back to the world-ending putt. “Right edge, very very fast, take your time.” I bent over the putter, looked at the right edge of the cup, and breathed on the ball. Roll, roll, roll, roll. Plop! The bottom of the jar!

My right arm took the mild form of a two inch Tiger victory thrust. Tom, who is never shy when it comes to showing emotion screeched out, “DOUBLE EAGLE! HOLY SHIT!” I bent over and pulled the ball from the hole, trying to act as though it was no big deal. Wow! A net double eagle.

Who’s buying?

What I would soon find out was that with the double eagle on the last hole, we WON the tournament!

As we stood on the veranda overlooking the course, our group sipped cocktails and shared stories about the day. I noticed a recognizable face walking across the stone patio. When he reached me he stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Corey Pavin. You guys were really ripping it up out there.”
Now remember, eight dollar khaki shorts, no socks, green Chucks. “Hi, I’m Corey Pavin?” What I should have said was “Hi, I’m Kirby and I don’t belong here.”

After a bunch of photos and rekindling the “warm” reception, dinner and the awards ceremony, I reflected on all that had happened this week. Private jet to Cabo. Interviewing doctors who donate their skills to children. Filming thankful special needs children. Witnessing the first blood donor in the Cabo area. Jet to Texas. Golf. Humiliation. New friends. And the two most improbable golf shots at the most opportune moments and I thought, why did God put me here?

Somewhere between Sandler and Costner.